


Needs

by unwindmyself



Series: curious shapes shift in the dark [13]
Category: True Blood
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, BDSM therapy, F/M, Gags, Masochism, S&M, Safe Sane and Consensual, Spanking, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:46:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwindmyself/pseuds/unwindmyself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are some games that Nora only ever plays with Eric.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Needs

**Author's Note:**

> Part one, "It Was Blue."

“Brother?” Nora asks, her voice faint as she appears in the doorway suddenly.  Her eyes are wide, her expression is practically serene, her hands are clasped behind her back; she’s in one of her dark dresses, not  _quite_ a special occasion dress but certainly one chosen to mean something, her feet are bare.

Eric has come to recognize this tone over time, the one that's just slightly wheedling and misleadingly naïve.  He knows what it's meant to lead to, so he’s smirking just a bit when he replies, “What do you need, Nora?”

(They established this routine ages ago, but they always remember the steps, no matter how long it’s been since last they went through them - decades as of now, probably - and no matter how the details change time to time.)

“Help me let go?” she continues, purposely indirect almost – though falsely, which he knows – tentative.  “Please?”

“I might have to improvise a bit,” he cautions, amused as he looks around the room.  “I haven’t got everything down here.” 

(A bit of a lie, but a harmless one; any hiding place of Eric Northman’s is going to be equipped for anything and everything, particularly the fun things.)

“Any way you can,” she presses.  Pressing is the only way to describe it; she’s resolute, almost desperate.  Sometimes it’s more gentle of a request; other times, like now, it’s almost an order.  In this way, the control and letting go is a highly choreographed dance, almost make-believe.

“You’re sure,” he not-quite-asks.  He tries to be careful with her, as careful as she’ll allow. He can imagine why she’s wanting this, but he can tell that suggesting it would spoil the mood, so instead he makes sure that he hears no doubt.  That isn't his idea of fun, and he knows that it wouldn't be hers either.

“Yes,” she exclaims, stepping toward him, and there’s no artifice for a moment, just pure, sweet desire.  “Yes, sir.”

“Oh, Nora,” he whispers, suddenly behind her, his voice low in her ear.  “I’ve told you before, that’s not necessary.”

Hastily, demurely, Nora shuts her mouth, nodding; in an instant, Eric has gone to dig through a drawer and returned, circling her slowly.  She shifts her weight, not letting herself look at him yet but feeling his gaze.  He’s got a way of looking right through her sometimes, and sometimes, like now, it's just what she needs.

“Ought I to undress?” she asks, even though she knows the answer. 

“To the lingerie I’m sure you wore just for this,” he tells her, almost teasing.  Parts of the game - some of the adornments, for example - are more for her benefit than his own.  “Quickly, if you please.”

“Quickly,” she repeats.  In no time, she’s stripping down to a camisole of sorts, one that's all tight and almost Gothic-Romantic black and red lace like she’d never wear most of the time, and throwing her clothes to the floor.  He knows her too well, she knows that he does.  He could have guessed at all of this.

“Good girl,” he murmurs, again stepping behind her.  He runs his hands across her shoulders, nips at the bared flesh, and just like he knew they would, her fangs pop in anticipation (for a vampire as old as she is, this is surprisingly easy to get her to do); while he has the chance, he slides a gag between her teeth and fastens it tight behind her head.  He steps back to look her, all pale skin and dark fabric, unblinking eyes and held-open mouth.  “Now the decisions are mine to make, _min drottning_.  No fighting.”

It’s not totally true; the toys he uses on her are psychological as much as anything, but the effect is powerful.  If she was ever too displeased, she could break any of them, she could fight.  They both know this, as surely as they know she won’t.

She whines slightly, her fangs clinking against the steel ring, and she waits.  Every so often, she needs this, she needs it sincerely, and she’s willing to play by the rules it requires.  (Honestly, most of them were her idea: their long-ago, still-remembered negotiations were entirely started by her, and the whole point right now is that she doesn't want to fight, she just wants to let it happen.)

“Oh, Nora,” he says, again sounding amused.  “My little Nora.  Did you play these games with anyone else?”

She shakes her head.  Here, even amongst the designedness, she strives to be honest.   It wouldn't work as well otherwise.

“Pity for them, then,” Eric chuckles.  “They’ve missed the most beautiful sight they could ever see.”

Almost expectantly, almost impatiently, she holds her wrists out, her whimper sounding enough like “please” that he understands it, and obligingly, swiftly, he locks a pair of handcuffs on her.

“Is that enough?” he asks.

She shakes her head adamantly, and after hurrying off for more supplies and back, he motions her toward the edge of the bed.  She knows what this means; it’s what she’d been hoping for.  Without having to be told, she lays herself over the bed, arms out in front of her, ass right on the edge; he attaches one chain from headboard to handcuffs, then two others from her ankles to the bedposts, spreading her legs precariously wide.

(It was the look in her eyes: he can always tell what she needs by looking in her eyes.)

The first hit is always almost nothing, at least compared to what they could both manage; he starts with just his hands, brushing one across her practically bare ass (the lacy nothings hiked up around her waist, her panties a flimsy thong) before he brings the other down flat over it.

Turning her head, Nora flashes him an impudent gaze.  It’s one that dares him to go harder, one that almost necessitates it; this isn’t about _punishment_ , not strictly, but such challenges and audacity must be answered.  She needs him to maintain his control, it won't work otherwise.

So, shaking his head as if to say, “Well, you asked for it,” he spanks her again, harder this time.  She wails, arching against his hand as best she can by instinct; a bit more fiercely, he repeats the gesture, grunting as he does.

“Is this what you wanted, _min kära_?” he asks between blows.  “Does this satisfy you?”

He knows what her answer wil be, and he almost smiles when, as resolutely as she can, she shakes her head “no."   A few more strikes, and he steps back to admire her bound form, her perfectly displayed ass with his quickly-fading pink handprints across it.  She lays there, whining and almost panting, and for a minute he just lets her wait.  Drawing it out is almost as torturous for her, she who has never (despite halfhearted efforts) properly learned patience in certain things.

When she’s practically writhing with anticipation, pressing her hips against the bed in hopes of relieving some of the throbbing between her legs, Eric smiles his predator smile and approaches again.  He’s picked up his whip now, and he can tell she’s expecting it without having seen it from the way she squeezes her thighs together (or tries to). 

“Oh, _min prinsessa_ ,” he chuckles, for just a moment leaning over her to whisper in her ear, kiss her throat roughly and scrape fangs along her skin.  She angles her head, inviting more, but he just laughs again and pulls back, taking up the whip and turning it over in his hands.  _“M_ _in prinsessa_ ,” he repeats, almost a command.  “ _Min söta_ _,_ _bara min_.”

Nora whimpers what sounds like a “yes,” already with a tremor in her voice, and it’s so plaintive that he can’t draw it out any longer.  He raises the whip, goes not for her already much-abused ass but for the backs of her legs.  None of that starting easy business this time: he cracks the whip over and over, taking care to keep a steady pace that he knows will drive her mad.

It’s no time at all before she’s crying out wordlessly, equal parts pleasure and pain; she braces her body against the bed, wrapping her fingers around the chains and gripping desperately.  Eric sees this little gesture and he smirks to himself: that, even more than the shrieks or the ways she shifts her hips, means that she’s close to losing it.

Each snap of the whip draws a thin line of blood on her legs, bright against her pale skin, and his fangs pop in no time at all.  He knows hers are still out, scraping against cold steel, and it’s all he can do not to just take her then and there. Some parts of the game are hers, some are for both of them, and he knows he's allowed to tip the balance.

After a moment’s deliberation, he gives in to his impulse and pulls her to standing, loosening the chain at her wrists, and loops an arm around her waist to steady her.  She's been crying, leaving perfect red trails on her cheeks, and he brushes some of them away with his thumb.  “Have you had enough?” he asks softly.

She shakes her head adamantly, even as she about trembles in his embrace; he strokes her jaw, really quite tenderly (it's difficult for him not to show some affection with her), and leans in to murmur nonsense against her skin, just to coerce impatient whines from her.  Every time his fangs graze her, she absolutely mewls, twisting against him as much as she can.

“Good things come to those who wait,” he chides, an ironic twist to his voice.  He raises a hand, halfway slaps her cheek, then pulls away entirely, long enough to finally undress himself.  Still chained at the ankles, facing the bed, she knows she’s not supposed to watch – the teasing, after all, being as much the point as anything – and instead she searches, perhaps against her better judgment, for the best way to relieve a bit of her tension.  It’s an awkward effort, taking her bound hands into consideration, but she tries.

To little end.  “You should know better, Nora,” he murmurs, suddenly back against her, his erection prodding her thigh. Without any lead-up, he thrusts into her, and she squeals as they find a rhythm, even more when he tugs her back sharply; this, so he can kiss her almost playfully, running his tongue over her fangs and through the ring holding her jaw open.  (He’s always loved to kiss her when he’s got a gag in her mouth; gags mean she can’t talk, which means she can’t lie, which means she’s ceded the control yet further.  This is his favorite way to remind her.)

She grinds her ass against him, and he picks up speed a little, groaning in her ear.  He takes her by the shoulders, holding her close, and when he reaches his other hand to tease at her clit, she shrieks – it could be his name, but it doesn’t much matter – and clumsily grabs at him to steady herself.

Each of his thrusts draws more muffled whimpers from her, getting more and more hysterical; he’s starting to moan too, pressing his face against her neck as he does.  “Wait for me to give permission,” he reminds her, laughing wickedly against her skin.

Nora nods, scrunching her face up with the effort to hold back; she makes to bite her lip, out of habit, but finds it impossible and gives a low, distressed whine instead.  Soon, started by that sound from her, he’s coming, holding her hips steady and moaning her name as he rides it out.  This of course makes her even more impatient, but he pulls out and drops to his knees before she has a chance to fight it.

The lashes on her legs have already all but disappeared, but he kisses the faint traces of them anyway, the near-invisible lines of dried blood, and he smirks as it makes her shake with need.  He moves to enter her again, with two and then three fingers; he pumps and stops and pumps and stops for what seems like ages, relishing her increasingly desperate moans.

When she doesn’t think he’ll ever let her release, he raises his voice a bit to tell her, “ _Jag ger dig_ _tillstånd_ _, min kärlek_ ,” then spreads her legs a bit wider and moves to kiss her swollen clit.

Once his mouth touches her, all bets are off, and she braces her hands against his shoulders, letting the orgasm wash over her.  She’s crying again, but almost from relief, her whole body shaking uncontrollably.

When she's come down some, Eric rises and leaves her there a moment; by the time he returns for her, her crying has softened to include laughing.  She’s sprawled facedown on the bed, body wracking with sobs and giggles, and for a moment he’s awash with fraternal affection for her and all of her feelings and impulses that he's a sole witness to.

He unchains her ankles and lifts her into his arms, whispering, “Let’s clean you up, _älskling_.”  He bends to kiss one of the bloody tear tracks on her cheek and at least her eyes smile.

When they reach the bathroom, near-spotless from unuse, he sets her on the countertop.  “Will you be good if I let you go?” he asks, like always, and she nods, also like always.  He unlocks the handcuffs, caressing the skin of her wrists, and pulls her camisole over her head; after one final kiss through it, he unfastens the gag as well.

The bathtub is nearly full by now, and he shifts her limp body into the tub.  He hasn’t yet given permission for her to act on her freedom, he likes to ease her into it, so until told, she lays motionless and silent as a rag doll. He climbs in behind her, enveloping her in his embrace and gently putting his lips to her cheek.  Once the water’s turned off, he runs his hands over her body, taking special care with her legs though they’ve already healed.  He means to take care of her always, how he can.

“Are you feeling better?” Eric asks, soft and low and warm.

Nora nods again, scooting closer against him, and she smiles; he reaches to lace his fingers with hers under the water, she rests her head against his chest, he strokes her hair.

“Tell me how much better,” he prompts huskily, kissing her throat.  It’s the needed permission.

Boldly, she runs her hand up his arm, pulling herself yet closer and breaking into a grin. “So much better,” she whispers.  “You’ve no idea how much I needed this.”

“I think I could imagine,” he chuckles.  “When it comes to a few things, you’re very obvious.”  Tilting his head, he murmurs, “I wouldn’t have been offended if you sought this from someone else over the years.  If the need became too great.  You truly didn’t?”

“Not – entirely, no,” she says, almost mischievously.  “I’ve told you, when I play rough with others, I tend to take the opposite role.”

He laughs, not entirely surprised by this information.  It’s much more in keeping with how she often presents herself to others.  “And I’m sure you’re a very adept dominatrix.”

She giggles, her eyes lighting up.  “I imagine a proper session might do you some good,” she declares saucily.  “If you ever get curious.”

“Someday,” he says – not as a promise, not as a dismissal.

“Sometimes,” Nora begins, soft and serious all of a sudden, “I think you’re the only one who knows who I really am anymore.  All of the dirt and the naughtiness included.”

“It’s a heavy burden, but I’ll bear it,” he teases, knowing she’s going to roll her eyes at him (which she does) and hit him (which she does).  Once she’s gotten over it (which he knew wouldn’t take long), he matches her tone, adding, “It’s an honor to bear it, sister.  It always will be.”

A sigh and another smile.  “I’m holding you to that.”

**Author's Note:**

>  _min drottning_ ; "my queen"  
>  _min kära_ ; "my dear"  
>  _min prinsessa_ ; "my princess"  
>  _min söta, bara min_ ; "my sweet, all mine"  
>  _Jag ger dig tillstånd, min kärlek_ ; "I give you permission, my love"  
>  _älskling_ ; "darling"


End file.
